Exposure
by graceofgod
Summary: Kazcon auction story. Caught by an old enemy, Dean has to fight long enough for Sam to find him. But when nightmares and memories merge, all he can do is hold on.
1. Chapter 1

For a long time, the world was just a confused jumble, _hurtcoldwetachedark._

He drifted in it, lost without even knowing he was, somehow aware that even that blur _burningemptypainblackfire _was better than what waited on the other side.

For a moment something slashed through the haze, a glimpse of a moon-shadowed road spinning away, glass shattering to crystal shards that rained over him like falling stars, an impression of something watching as sky and trees lurched sickeningly over and over, something with black eyes and a blacker smile that sent adrenaline shuddering through him.

He didn't want to remember that. It hurtin a way he couldn't quite understand, faded echo of familiar fists, of fire exploding in his shoulder and empty eyes staring at him down the length of the gun…

He let himself slide down into the dark, let it wash over him, drag him under and it never felt like drowning when it closed over him and pulled him away.

…_full of broken thoughts I cannot repair…_

It slipped through the nothing, quick-silver, snaring him and drawing him up. He thought maybe he struggled, he didn't want to be _up, _where it hurt in a way he couldn't make better and where there was nothing waiting for him but cold and empty and alone.

…_beneath the stain of time, the feelings disappear…_

It was inexorable, winding around him, through him, rushing faster and faster until he opened his mouth to scream at it to _stop, just stop _but before he could do more than draw a breath that turned ribs he hadn't had a moment before to fire, the world came crashing down around him. It smelt of cold metal and wet leather, rotting leaves and freshly turned earth and scorched rubber. He choked, the air escaping him in a whimper as he curled in on himself, searching the comfort of the cold, aching dark.

…_you are someone else, I am still right here…_

Only thing was… he knew those words that twisted him up in themselves. He knew they were important, knew they meant something that hovered just out of reach as his hazy mind scrabbled to catch it.

_Sam._

_Phone._

_Oh, crap._

"Sam?" he blurted, winced at the rasp in his throat that made it feel like swallowing barbed wire. He fumbled one hand out, breath hitching as he rolled and sparks lashed up his leg, burning white hot. He bit his lip, held himself still and reached out again, fingers clumsily searching for the phone that warbled tinnily at him one last time and went silent in the middle of Reznor's growl.

"Hey, Sam."

He blinked as he heard his voice greet his brother, sure by the distinct lack of barbed wire in his throat that he hadn't spoken.

"I'm fine, Sam. Okay? Seriously. I'm fine. I just… well, you remember that waitress in Memphis? Yeah. Yeah, that's right, little brother. Ha. Funny guy. No, I'll be back this evening, alright? Carla's… feisty. Go… I don't know. Go rob a library or something, 'kay? Alrighty."

By the time the phone clicked shut, he'd managed to clear the bloody haze from one eye and glared at the short brunette smiling back at him as she tossed the small device carelessly over one shoulder. It clattered on the floor and he jumped in spite of himself, nerves wound to breaking point by her stare.

"Hey, Dean."

"I know you, sweetheart?"

Her smile stretched a little.

"Guess I don't look so dumb now, huh?"

The hunter's mouth snapped shut on the retort as he pulled back.

"Meg?"

She quirked a brow at him, spread her arms as if displaying the meatsuit she was wearing. He almost expected her to twirl right there in the middle of the cabin that was becoming painfully familiar. His breath hitched as he recognised it and he shrank back into the corner behind him, clenching his jaw shut so hard his teeth groaned and bright slivers of pain darted up into his skull.

_You're not my dad… _

"No."

He heard the whisper, thought for a moment she was mimicking him again, until she threw her head back and laughed.

"Oh, Dean. You Winchesters are so easy to play."

She pushed away from the scarred table she'd been leaning against, one denim-clad leg crossed over the other, and stalked towards him. Her face flickered as she neared, long hair turning shaggy, tumbling into eyes that were warmer, less green, then shifting again, back and forth.

"Sam?"

She grinned and the smile was all hers, even as she shaped her face to his brother's.

"Sammy-boy's just fine."

She cocked Sam's head to one side, the moonlight streaming fitfully through the grimy window falling across his – _her _– face and he frowned, rocking back from the memory of his brother, standing in the middle of the night-dark road, silver turning his face pale, eyes unreadable as he watched the Impala skid over the edge of the embankment and roll…

"Don't you wear his face, bitch."

He forced it out through gritted teeth, the growl smarting in his throat, so much it brought tears to his eyes but he glared at her until she shrugged, features smoothing back to the bland, pretty girl he'd first seen. She looked at him silently, impassive, her gaze a pressure on his skin that build to an itch as she held it. He made himself look back steadily, curled one hand into a fist at his side against the urge to flinch away, shaking with the effort it took, every tremor burning in his leg. He ignored it, kept his gaze locked to the greater threat, blindly trusting his instincts. As he watched, her eyes flooded slowly with the soulless black, a perfect mirror that let him see his own battered, bloodied face reflected back at him.

_You look like crap, Dean._

The voice in his head sounded more like his brother than she did and he grinned weakly, wondering how long he'd been gone.

_Better find me quick, Sammy. _

She smiled back, and he wondered for a dazed moment if she could read minds.

"Well, this is fun, isn't it Dean?"

"Like a day at the fair," he snarked, smirking at her as she chuckled quietly and pushed easily to her feet. She tossed a look back over her shoulder at him as she wandered to the far corner and he peered past her; saw a table covered with bowls and candles and a heavy, silver goblet, cast with twisted faces leering back at him. He blinked once, slowly, as he realised he recognised it.

_Chicago. She had that in Chicago, at the altar. _

She shifted so that he couldn't see past her and he swore silently, flicking a glance around the cabin. His heart stuttered every time he saw it, the window that had silhouetted his father as he dropped his gaze, then looked back up with yellow eyes. There was still a bloodstain on the warped floorboards under another window.

He shivered, wrenched his stare away from it, let it skitter back over the demon as she stood at the table, chanting softly, hands weaving over the goblet. Licking dry lips, Dean rolled forward, curiosity itching under his skin.

_How'd she do that? Demons don't shapeshift, they can't. Some kind of illusion maybe? A spell?_

He almost grinned at the whisper in his head that sounded so much like his brother, faced with a puzzle he couldn't solve. It faded under another voice, a memory that made his throat tighten.

_I learned a few new tricks…_

His breath hitched as his leg rolled with him, slipping forward to knock against the floor and he lurched back, blind with the fire that slammed up through his thigh, thumping the dusty wood once then spreading his hand flat, trying to ground himself. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard a quiet laugh and tipped his head down to his shoulder, stubborn will refusing to let her see the tears that had sprung to his eyes.

She'd gone back to chanting by the time his vision cleared and he let his head hang for a while, panting, vaguely watching sweat drip from his jaw to make dark circles in the dust. Slowly, the pain eased back to a dull hiss of static along his nerves and he finally turned his head, looked down at his legs.

Two inches below his left knee, it looked like someone had hollowed out a watermelon and worked it up over his calf. The denim of his pants was stretched taut, seams straining, the old tear frayed and bloodied from a wide scrape that burned raw across the top of the swelling.

_Busted. __Oh, you are so screwed now, Dean._

_That _voice was all his and he snarled at it to 'shut the hell up, already' in his head, snapped his gaze back up as the low chant suddenly rose to a ringing cry that echoed, too long for this isolated cabin in the middle of the Missouri woods. The hunter tried to shrink back as the demon turned; the goblet cradled carefully in both hands, her boots quiet on the floor. She knelt, settled back on her heels and slipped one hand free of the cup, letting him see it clearly and a shiver traced down his spine as he realised the faces on it weren't leering, they were screaming, straining out of the silver, chains and fire lapping around them, dragging them back to the dark stained surface.

"You know, Sammy-boy's got an awful lot locked up in that head of his."

"You're telling me. Thousand and one ways to impeach a high court judge, couple of dozen banishment rituals, most of the damn bestiary…" he was rambling and knew it, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the screaming, straining faces that suddenly looked one hell of a lot like his and between the pain still beating dully in his head, and the shudders that kept racing up and down his back, he couldn't seem to stop. She overrode him.

"He remembers things he doesn't even know he remembers. Like the Shtriga. You remember that, right Dean? So does Sam. He used to dream about it, waking up to see it leaning over his bed and big brother was nowhere to be found."

His ramble cut off with a snap of teeth and he pulled back as far as he could, hands and one foot scrabbling weakly on the floor.

"He doesn't remember. You're lying."

"Oh, he remembers, Dean. Let me show you what he's got locked up in there, buried so deep I had to dig to find it."

He wanted to punch her, smash the smug grin right off her face but she flattened her free hand in the air and the dull static of pain in his leg suddenly screamed as unseen hands roughly rolled him to his back, pressed him down into the floorboards and held him there. She rocked forward and all he could do was watch her as she reached out, grabbed his jaw and wrenched it open, fingers digging into his cheeks as she tipped his head back and tilted the cup to his lips. The thick, dark liquid inside choked him, burned his mouth as she poured it in and his throat worked, trying to spit it out. It trickled out over his jaw, turning to ice as soon as it hit the air and she scowled, tipped the cup further and forced his mouth shut, slapping her hand down across it as he writhed against the hands that were crushing him.

Then she tossed the empty goblet carelessly over her shoulder, and with her free hand, casually punched him in the stomach. He gagged, couldn't stop himself swallowing in reflex as she let him go and he curled in on himself, feeling the liquid scorch down his gullet, worse than the roughest moonshine. He strangled a cry, twisted his arms around his stomach as it burned and lost the cabin in a haze of fire that filled every nerve, disconnected him, jumbled his senses so that he saw her touch as she laid a hand on his shoulder, black and cold, heard the sulphur on her breath brush over his skin in an acid-bright discord as she leant close and whispered in his ear, words that tasted of smoke and dirt.

"Let's see, why don't we, Dean?"

_And then Dad's standing there, getting ready to go again. He grabs a shotgun from the table and stuffs it into his duffle, looking up at me as he smiles a little, that grim smile he always gives me when he's leaving. I try to copy it, reflect it back, to say _You can trust me, Dad. I'll make everything alright while you're gone_. Sometimes it works._

_This time, I don't think it does, because his lips twitch a little like he almost wants to laugh, but that's okay too. He doesn't laugh much, but I like it when he does._

_He walks to the door, stops and looks at me and I know what's coming next._

"_Look out for Sammy."_

_I say it right along with him and he just stares at me a moment. Then he nods, opens the door and he's gone, just like that. Two nights spent hunched over the table with it's load of books and newspapers and scraps of paper covered with his scrawl and then there's just the shotgun by the door and the salt line laid down along the window sills the day we got here._

_And me and Sammy._

_I lock the door like I'm meant to, stand there for a second, missing him already. Behind me, Sammy's zoned out to Thundercats on the grainy TV. I shake my head a little, square my shoulders and swagger to the table, swinging a chair 'round to sit on it backwards, like Dad does. Crossing my elbows on the back and resting my chin on top of them, I start fiddling, doodling with the newspaper, pretending to read some story about a local business man getting arrested for fraud._

_Dad'll get a kick out the Impalas sketched down the margins, doing donuts and J-turns._

_But the room's already starting to feel too small._

_The air's kind of stale, tastes old, like it's been breathed too many times and the smell of cigarettes that I noticed when we first came in comes back full force. The TV is too loud, grating, jarring every nerve until I want to yell at Sammy to turn it off._

_I turn to a new page, doodle harder._

_Time flicks by, half-noticed articles and the odd theme tune blaring in my ears. I hate this time. I know if I can just get through tonight, tomorrow will be better. First night's always the worst._

_Finally, it's time for Sammy's supper._

_There isn't much that stays steady in our lives, but I try and at least make sure Sammy gets supper at the same time every night. So I push away from my chair, ask him what he wants, SpaghettiOs or SpaghettiOs. He grins at me, long hair flopping in his eyes and burbles, "Sgabettiohs!"_

_Usually, that kinda cracks me up. Tonight it just sets my teeth on edge._

"_Fine. Coming right up."_

_Five minutes later the pan's steaming and the brat's demanding the last bowl of Lucky Charms. He turns on the puppy-dog eyes and it works, of course it does. I watch him chow down on the cereal, playing with the toy he gave me, rolling it over and over in my fingers. It's already cracked along one side; I'm squeezing it so tight._

_Then he's done and I wash his bowl up and send him into the bathroom to brush his teeth. For a minute or two the room is empty, there's space for me to breathe, to listen to the hush and let my shoulders relax just a little. And then he's back with a minty grin and a sloppy kiss that I'm too slow to brush off._

"_Night Deanie!"_

"_Don't call me that, brat."_

"_Deanie, Deanie, Deanie…"_

"_Sam!"_

_Maybe he hears the snap of anger, maybe he sees it in my face, either way he shuts up and stops dancing 'round the room, standing there all puppy-dog eyes and quivering chin. Dammit._

"_Sorry, Sammy."_

"_Me too, Dean." _

_He whispers it and I feel like a scumbag._

"_C'mon, kiddo. Get to bed, huh?"_

"'_kay. Night Dean."_

"_Yeah. Night, Sam."_

_It's like the damn Waltons and that makes the walls start closing in again, the air gets that stale smell and I have to clench my fists to stand there and watch him shuffle to the bedroom instead of running out screaming into the parking lot. I wait, make myself wait until he's asleep then clock-watch for another ten minutes, just to be sure. Then I slip out the door, locking it behind me and pocketing the key carefully, checking the windows from the outside, still shut, still locked, salt line still a faint trace of glitter along the inside of the sills. He's as safe as I can make him, and I gotta get out, just for a while. Just for a little while._

_A little while turns into lost time, wandering around the motel until I find the space invaders machine. The high-score table is full of 'R. Plant' by the time the manager kicks me out, but I head back to the room easily enough. It doesn't feel too small anymore, the air's fresh, smelling faintly of toothpaste and burned tomato sauce and… _

_mud._

_It smells of mud._

_And that's when it all goes sideways._

_In the same moment that I recognise the smell, I see the bedroom door isn't open like I left it, there's an odd, blue light coming through a thin crack like maybe the wind tugged it a little. There shouldn't've been any wind, not with the windows shut. It takes me three steps to get close enough to see the way that light shifts through the open door and I forget about breathing as I reach down for the shotgun propped against the frame, push the door open the rest of the way and freeze with the gun half-way to my shoulder._

Sammy?

_I think it, over and over, like a stuck record, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy but I can't move, can't even make myself say it out loud. I just stand there, frozen, watching that thing suck the life out of my baby brother until thunder booms __five times, right beside my ear and I jump a mile. The thing screeches, glares up at me, at Dad beside me, I can hear him cursing in one ear but the other, the one he fired the pistol beside, is just ringing like the scream that's been building in my head. SAMMY! The witch is gone in a whirl of mud-crusted black and Dad spares time for one furious glare at me as he dashes to the bed, wisps of smoke curling up from the gun he dumps on the bed as he kneels and pulls Sammy into his chest. The kid's pale, eyes bruised, lips tinged blue but the scariest thing is that he doesn't wake up. Sam always wakes up. Always. All I gotta do is turn over in the next bed and he'll wake but Dad's rocking him, shaking him, yelling at him, 'Wake up, Sammy c'mon, please, open your eyes!' At me, 'Where were you? Where the hell were you?_'_ and he still lies there in Dad's arms._

_I don't even feel the tears on my cheeks until we get outside, Dad carrying Sam, loading him into the front seat car like he's made of porcelain, leaving me to lock the room and hurry after him. I'm not too sure he actually would've waited for me to get in back if I wasn't quick enough. The ringing in my right ear is getting louder and it hurts but I don't say anything, don't even press my hand against it like I want to, just ball up in the corner of the back seat and watch as Dad runs his fingers through Sam's hair in front._

_The hospital's all bright lights and scared faces. The nurses whisk Sam away through the doors and Dad bulls after them, leaving me behind this time, half a look telling me to stay put. I find a seat, _do what I'm told, _and if I'd just done that in the first place… Pull my feet up onto the chair, wrap my arms around them, bury my head in the dark and listen to the screaming in my ear._

Where were you? Where the hell were you?

_Playing __space invaders. I was playing space invaders while that thing sucked the life out of my baby brother._

_I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry. Be okay, please? You gotta be okay. You just gotta._

"_Hey, son. You okay in there?"_

_I'm too tired to startle and anyway, the voice has been asking me for a few seconds, drawing me out of the hot guilt. It's only when a big hand falls on my knee that I actually look up and blink at him, white hair and a kind smile. _Dad used to call me son. When did he stop calling me son?

_I ignore the whisper in my head and nod, sniffling a little before I can stop._

"_You all alone?"_

_I shake my head._

"_Here with your mom?"_

_Freeze at that, feel my stare going icy-hard like Dad's does. The white-haired stranger quirks a brow and pulls back a little, and I see the dog-collar at his throat. Great. Priests._

"_Dad?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_He hurt?"_

_Shake my head, mute again, deaf under the screaming in my ear. Sammy._

"_Oh. So, maybe, a brother?"_

_I duck my head back down to my knees so he can't see me crying. The hand on my knee shifts to my shoulder, pets stiffly._

"_Hey, I'm sure he'll be fine. He'll be just fine."_

"_What the hell are you doing with my son?"_

_It doesn't sound like Dad. It must be, because the priest is shifting away, snatching his hand back like my shoulder suddenly burned him and I can hear him stammering apologies and defences, but it doesn't sound like Dad._

"_Dean."_

_One word order and I slip down off the chair; fall in behind him as he stalks off through the doors, looking back once to see the priest frowning after us worriedly. A chime sounds beside me and the lift doors open, we file in in silence, stand there, in silence, Dad's stiff and cold behind my shoulder and the rattle and clank of the machinery is too loud against my aching ear. It's still ringing shrilly. Still crying, _Sammy. _When the chime sounds again, louder inside the car, it spikes and I flinch but neither of us say anything as we file out and I watch Dad's boots leave faint traces of mud on the speckled tiles, all the way to a small room with three empty beds and one occupied one._

_He drops into a chair, lifts one of Sammy's hands in his and curls it against his lips._

_And doesn't say anything._

_Not when I pull over another chair and perch on the edge._

_Not when that's too far and I clamber up to the bed, sitting by my brother's shoulder, trying not to look at the tubes running into him._

_Not when I curl up and whisper to Sammy, "You gotta wake up, Sammy. Please. You can call me Deanie forever, just wake up."_

_He doesn't say anything until the alarms start screeching, just like the witch did, then he shouts, so loud I cower back into the corner away from him._

"_Save him, you have to save him! Please, he's my boy!"_

_When they stop and the alarms go silent, that's when he turns to me, eyes wide and red._

"_What did you do?"_

He jerked back, yanking his head away from her touch with a gasp that would have been a cry if he'd had enough air in his lungs. His leg twisted as he pulled away, white heat screaming from his toes to his hip, almost drowning out the fire in his stomach. He clamped his jaw shut, throat locked against the tears that burned his eyes, wide and locked on hers. She smiled back at him, let him scrabble for distance between them, unthinking motions as he shoved at the floor until his back met the wall and he hunched against it, chest heaving as he fought for air, struggled to remember what was real and what was just dream.

_Dad shot it and it ran but we got there in time, we did, I know we did. He didn't die. He. Did. Not. Die._

He could still hear the ringing in his right ear.

"Not… not like…that. Wasn't."

He couldn't catch his breath, kept losing it every time his leg sent a new jolt of pain through him but he glared at her as she shifted to sit Indian-style, hands curled loosely together in her lap.

"Are you sure, Dean?"

He snorted breathlessly, forced himself to take slow, deep breaths until his heart eased its frantic race and he could think through the echo of alarms and _What did you do?_

"Called a paradox, bitch. If Sam died then, how did you possess him three months ago?"

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing cheerfully from the roof, making the cobwebs tangled there sway.

"Good point. Still. I'm just getting started, Dean."

He licked dry lips, curled his hand into a fist against his abdomen, tried to pretend it was just the pain that turned his knuckles white.

"Why? What do you want?"

She sobered, smile turning cold and hard, eyes dark ice pinning him in place.

"You sent me to hell twice, Dean. The only thing I give a rat's ass about is seeing you burn like I did."

"That's it? That's what this is all about? Revenge?"

The demon nodded, smiling again, hazel eyes swirling with black.

"Pretty much."

He laughed, winced at the edge to the sound.

"Well, you're just freakin' bucket's've crazy."

"Demon here," she countered, spreading her arms to the sides. Dean shook his head, let it hang for a moment, still trying to slow his breathing past the flames chewing at his insides. He could feel the poison, his mouth and throat still stinging, it felt like every inch of his abdomen was being branded at once, raked over hot coals. He swallowed another jagged laugh.

_Nice. 'Cause that's an image I need in my head right now. C'mon, Dean. Time to kick some demon skank ass._

He tipped his head back against the wall, felt the rough wood dig at his skin, achingly familiar. His eyes skittered over to the window, to the bed he'd sat on, cleaning his hands, where words he'd longed to hear had just driven suspicion into him. _I'm proud of you. You watch out for this family, you always have._

Tore his gaze away, back to hers as she watched him, a smug grin twisting the girl's pretty mouth into something ugly. He wondered, suddenly, who she was, if she had family to miss her and knew his mind was starting to wander, trying to shut down the pain from his stomach and leg.

Meg cocked her head, leant forward a little.

"You know, Dean, I never really went for tall men. Sam was just… following orders."

He choked a little, made his voice high and frightened.

"No, please, stop, I'll do anything, just not that!"

The demon smirked, pushed to her feet and wandered over to the edge of the moonlight that spilled through the window. It played over the girl's face, cast it into shadow, glittered from black eyes as she turned to look at him again. He squirmed under her stare, breath hitching as his leg shifted again and tried to pull his hands under himself, judging the distance between them. Plans skittered through his mind and were gone, discarded as quickly as they formed until he had nothing but stubborn will driving him. He waited, hanging his head again to disguise the way he gathered himself, needing her to take just one more step back, to give him enough time to lurch to his feet.

"He's gonna come, you know," Dean said, lifting his head just enough to see her look sharply at him. "Sam. He's gonna come and he'll kick your sorry ass to next week."

"That's the plan, Dean. You're just bait, or hadn't you realised that? Sam? He's the brains, right? He'll think he knows just the right way to save the day and send me back to hell again. And when he tries his favourite exorcism…" She trailed off and shrugged. "He'll get one hell of a surprise."

As she finished, she took a step back, half turning away from the hunter where he hunched on the floor. Dean grabbed one last breath, balled his fists until his nails dug blood from his palms and launched himself up, growling out the pain that turned the room to blinding white.

"I hate surprises, bitch."

She spun, rattlesnake fast, he made that out through the haze but mostly he just went on instinct, throwing himself forward, one hand already out and reaching, the other balled, drawn back by his ear.

He never even touched her, slamming into a wall of air that caught him and threw him straight back across the room, hard. He hit the wall with one shoulder, felt something in it give before his head crashed into the wood and the already hazy world turned dim and cloudy, shot through with black stars. A groan shivered in his throat but he couldn't hear it through the roaring in his ears, just knew he sagged halfway to the floor before something caught him, crushed him back into the wall.

"Come on, Dean. You can do better than that."

The force dropped away, let him crumple bonelessly to his knees, blind and numb to everything but the pain that screamed along his nerves and tore awareness apart, left just the echo, _Sam. He's gonna come. He'll get one hell of a surprise. _

_Gotta get your act together, Dean. Sam's gonna come charging into rescue you and kid'll walk right into it, you know he will._

Vaguely, he thought that his head was getting pretty crowded, with Bobby in there as well now. He dragged together fragments of rough wood splintering under his hands, of moonlight reflecting from twisted faces, the tang of his own sweat on his tongue, pieced them together into a cloudy world and blinked his vision clear. Realised he was sagging against the wall by the window, staring at the blood stain on the floor, the goblet lying at the edge of the moonlight. Old blood, months old.

He shuddered as he realised it was his.

A shadow blanked it out, long, slender fingers catching his jaw, tipping his head up gently, almost tenderly. She smiled down at him with clear, hazel eyes, dark curls falling forward around her face as she leant in so close he could feel her breath on his lips, could feel the heat coming off her skin and only then realised he was bitterly, achingly cold.

"Not good enough, Dean," she whispered, the words brushing his skin. He closed his eyes, tried to pull away but she tightened her grip, slid her free hand up to trace the blood trickling from his temple. "You lose."

It was the last thing he heard as she spread her fingers across his brow and tightened them, digging the tips in, the poison in his blood answering her touch with a roar that spun him away into nothing.

_The sun's shining so bright I can hardly see. __It smells like the pavement's melting and I know I'll never forget that smell, not ever. All I can hear is the brakes on the Buick barrelling towards us howling as he tries to stop. I stretch my arm out so far I think my shoulder might pop out like Dad's did that time but there's no way I'll make it, Sammy's sprawled out in the middle of the street right where he fell and there's people everywhere in the way, all of them running away from the asshat who jumped the lights and no-one's noticed the gangly seven year-old who tripped over his own feet._

_It's not the sun that's blinding me at all as the Buick screams past in a blur of white and chrome, rocks to a halt fifty feet down the block._

_I snatch my hand back, stumble and trip over my own feet and fall flat on my ass on the hot tar and stare at the sky reflecting in Sammy's empty eyes._

"No!"

He snapped his head back, away from her touch but with the wall at his back couldn't go further and her hand just followed, burning him, freezing him, dragging him under.

_I blink at the hole in the floor. Place is like a freakin' haunted house, all trapdoors and hidden passages but this hole is different, this hole is ragged edges and settling dust and Sammy, somewhere down there in the black that opened up under our feet so fast I didn't even see him drop._

"_Dean!"_

_It's Dad, on the stairs to the next floor, leaning over the banister._

"_**SAMMY!"**_

He jerked back, shuddering, throat desert-dry and every breath a rasping wheeze as he fought off the over lapping memories, the sickening double-exposure of what he knew was true and the things she showed him. Blind, he clawed at the floor, trembled and shook under the pain that lashed through him, stomach and leg, her touch on his head ice cold in the burning that seemed to consume him. Her fingers spread on his temple again, dug in as he twisted away and wrenched him back as he stuttered.

"Wasn't like that… I caught him. I saved him."

"Are you sure, Dean? Really sure? Like, a hundred percent sure?"

He growled incoherently at the smug grin on her face, shivered as it turned cold and hard and tried one last time to pull back but the poison in his blood screamed up as she leant in and swamped him again.

_It's still raining. __Startin' to feel like the wrath of god out here and seriously, who knew half of South Dakota smells like wet dog when it's wet? Then again, maybe that's just Rumsfeld. Mutt's ranging out ahead, Dad's on my left, Bobby out on the other side of him and Sam's just within reach on my right._

_It's wet, it stinks and the cold's gonna do some serious damage to places I really don't want damaged._

_It's freakin' perfect._

_Out here, the Skinwalker somewhere up in the woods, the four of us and the dog all hunting together, it's like family. Sam's still doing his broody teenager thing but this is the first time in months he and Dad haven't been at it like cats and dogs and from the looks Bobby sends me every now and then behind Dad's back, he's just as relieved as I am. Now if I can just get Sam to toe the line for a few weeks, soften Dad up a little, maybe I can sweet talk him into thinking about those prospectuses Sam doesn't know I know about._

_I haven't got a clue how long the kid's been thinking about college. Since he was eight, probably._

_I duck under a low bush, half my mind still mulling over ways to make it seem like less of an abandonment, the other half cursing as the rain drips straight down the back of my jacket. Rolling my shoulders as it works it's way down my spine, I take a quick look along the line, Dad, Bobby, both the old men so intent on Rumsfeld's tail as he tracks the Skin' they don't notice me trip over my own feet as I look the other way and see nothing but trees and scrub and rain._

"_Sam!"_

_Dog starts yelping, high and scared and I hear Bobby yell at him, Dad yell at me but all the time I'm yelling at Sam. The woods are echoing with the racket we're making, off to my right as I stumble over to where Sam should've been there's a clatter of startled wings as a brace of pheasants take-off, squawking loudly. _

_I shouldn't be able to hear it, god knows how but I do, faint breath of sound that drags me back along our trail, just a few yards to where it dipped down into a hollow, dimly aware of Dad behind me, Bobby still chasing after Rumsfeld as the dog starts howling._

_I don't even notice the rain that drips down my neck again as I slide to my knees beside him. He's shivering, stare roaming wildly around the sky. I shrug out of my jacket, couldn't care less that I'm soaked to the skin by the time I've got it tucked around him, but he's still shivering and I can't catch his gaze._

"_Sammy?"_

_He jerks a little at my whisper, whimpers in pain, the same noise I heard before; my name. But his eyes track to mine and hold there, more or less._

"_Hey, Sammy. It's gonna be okay. We'll fix you up, alright? Okay?"_

_He tries to nod, shakes his head and bites down another cry. Rolls his hand out from under my jacket, curls his fingers at me and I slip mine through his and hold on, tight enough for both of us as I hear Dad scramble through the bushes._

"_Call 911."_

"_What? Dean – "_

"_**Call 911!"**_

_It's the wrong way round, he should be the one kneeling here yelling orders and I'm supposed to be the one scrambling back up the low bank, searching for signal but Sam's got my hand caught in his and neither one of us is letting go any time soon. I reach out, brush the too-long hair that always falls into his eyes out with my free hand, leave it there resting on his head._

"_Need a haircut, dude."_

_He grins shakily, faintly and there's blood on his teeth. He pulls at my hand, his fingers are cold and as I lean in I try and wrap them up in mine, try and warm them._

"_D'n."_

"_I'm here. I'm right here kiddo."_

"_Dy'n'…"_

"_No. No you're not. You hear me? You're gonna be just fine. It's nothin'. Just a scratch."_

_My jacket's already turned black where it covers him but I don't let myself look at it, block it from his sight as well with my shoulder as I hunch over him, try and give him some shelter._

"_Wan'ed… y' to…know…"_

"_Tell me later, Sammy, 'kay? Don't try and talk."_

"_Shuddup 'n lissen."_

_Rain drips down my face, falls to his as I follow orders. I can barely hear anything through the roaring in my head, but his thick, choked whisper comes through just fine. My fingers comb through his hair as he fights to get words out and I couldn't say anything if I wanted to._

"_Was gonna… 'ply t'college."_

_I nod and he figures out then that I already knew. He smiles a little again, blood-stained and wonderful._

"_Prof… said… I'd get… schol'ship…"_

_Each word is coughed out between rasping, rattling gasps that paint his lips red. My fingers around his are turning blue and I know, distantly, that I'm shivering hard but the world's disconnected, condensed down to him telling me he was going to leave and me trying to figure out how to tell him it was okay. It was okay._

"_Stan…ford."_

_I laugh, cry, blurt out, "That's my boy," and he squeezes my hand once._

_And then he's gone._

_Then there's just the rain and Dad crumbling up on the bank behind me and Bobby, silent and shocked and Rumsfeld howling at his side and his icy fingers getting colder and colder in mine._

He shook, caught a glimpse of black eyes right up in his, an eager smile and a laugh that was the only cool thing in a world that burned. Jerked his head in denial, stammered out,

"Didn' geddim. It didn'. No. Y'r lyin'. Hafta be."

She just smiled wider and spread her other hand on the other side of his head, dug her fingertips into both temples and he cried out then, arched against her touch and lost what was real and what was just the twisted dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Oops. It's been pointed out to me (ta Phoebe!) that I somehow forgot to mention that this is for Swellison – sorry hun! I'm blaming it squarely on the vodka… **_

It didn't seem fair that it looked exactly the same.

He sat there, fingers white around the wheel, just staring at the cabin where it hunkered down in the small clearing and all the time, he kept thinking he could hear the faint, slurred mumble from the backseat that had kept his brother's eyes locked in a pattern between the road, the mirror and his own profile.

He kept thinking that if he just looked over, he'd see his brother, worried and worn out in the seat beside him.

Shaking his head slowly, Sam eased out of the car, half-glad the doors of the stolen station wagon didn't creak, a quick pang of loneliness cutting deep as he hitched it closed behind him. One hand drifted down to his pocket, to his phone, silent after that one quick call.

"_Hey Sam."_

"_Dean? Where the hell are you?"_

" _I'm fine, Sam. Okay?"_

"_You sure? Is the car okay? ''Cause last time I looked, it doesn't take four hours to drive to the diner on the other side of town."_

"_Seriously. I'm fine."_

"_Four. Hours. Dean."_

" _I just… well, you remember that waitress in Memphis?"_

"_The blonde?"_

" _Yeah."_

"_The one who looked like __Honey Ryder and couldn't take her eyes off you long enough to pour the coffee?"_

" _Yeah, that's right, little brother."_

"_Yeah, she was just your type. IQ lower than her neck line."_

"_Ha. Funny guy."_

"_So do I need to catch the bus to Memphis tomorrow?"_

" _No, I'll be back this__ evening, alright? Carla's… frisky. Go… I don't know. Go rob a library or something, 'kay? Alrighty."_

It had sounded wrong, still did in his head, some strange lilt to his brother's voice that had jarred against his nerves as he'd tried to forget the worry. By the time he'd given in and run a trace on Dean's phone, he couldn't sit still, paced restlessly from one side of the grey motel room to the other, the moon rising sickly orange against the Mississippi sky as he waited.

When the cursor had blinked up on the screen, his knees buckled, dropped him to his ass on the floor and he never even felt it, too busy staring blind at the tiny symbol flashing cheerfully at him.

_Missouri._

_Carter County._

'_We couldn't've found a more out of the way place to hole up.'_

With the echo of his brother's voice murmuring in his ear, he knew right then it was a trap. It still didn't stop him throwing their bags into the backseat of the Ford station wagon next to the Impala's empty space in the parking lot and start driving.

He hadn't stopped for more than gas and to load every gun they had at the end of the road, but now, the sight of the cabin, unchanged since he'd glanced back at it from the driver's seat over Dean's bloodied shoulders, now it kept derailing him.

He shook himself loose again, hands moving on automatic to slide his Taurus against the small of his back, to tug a shotgun into his arms and sling the duffle, bulging with more weapons, over his shoulder. Everything was loaded with consecrated iron.

There was only one thing that would know to bring them here.

Sam ducked into the trees, slipped through them until his back brushed the mould from the cabin walls. It powdered at his feet as he slid to the window by the door, decay ripe and sharp in his nose as he ducked low, craned his neck to ease one eye up against the filthy glass. The moon, sliding in and out of the clouds, turned it to a mirror, just for a moment and he saw his own fear reflected back at him, the grief that only dulled at the edges and never truly faded, buried deep but flaring at odd moments, enough to take his breath away.

The shadow thickened over the woods again in the same moment that he heard a muted cry from the other side of the wall, saw a slight, undeniably feminine figure hunched over another, sprawled on the floor and he didn't need to see the bloodstain to know it was there, right there underneath his brother again, soaked indelibly into memory and wood.

He flattened a hand against the wall beside the glass, pressed hard and leant into it for a moment. Splinters scratched at his palm as he licked dry lips, mouthed ancient Latin to himself, shifted the fingers of his other hand around the stock of his shotgun. He pulled in one more breath, held it as he counted down his heartbeats, watched his brother shudder under her touch through the grime on the glass.

When the whisper in his head reached nothing, he shoved away from the wall, threw his shoulder into the door and it splintered apart under him. He stumbled through the wreckage, kept his feet more by luck than skill but lifted the shotgun, aimed and fired before he even had time to see the way Dean whimpered and shrank back away from the demon crouched over him, her hands digging into the thin skin at his temples, turning it white. She twisted at the thunder of his entrance and he stifled the bizarre urge to growl, 'Here's Sammy!' at the dark haired, black eyed girl who shrieked and tumbled away from his brother.

Sam surged forward instead, already yelling the Latin, throat tight and threatening to close completely as he put himself between Dean and the girl, reloading as he moved.

The demon gathered herself, knelt on the scarred, stained floor and glared at him, wincing and shivering as the exorcism caught hold.

She didn't start laughing until he cried the last phrase and his stomach shrank sharply, suddenly, his mouth drying.

In the silence after the echoes faded, they watched each other, hunter and hunted, victim and vengeance, none of them moving. The moonlight spilling through the windows darkened once as clouds claimed it, then shone through brighter than ever and he almost gasped as he saw black blood running from the girl's nose, quickly joined by twin streams from her ears, her black eyes rolling up white. He stared, horrified, as the blood dripped from her chin, turning to smoke before it hit the floor, twisting around her like cats' tails.

Behind him, Dean whispered a groan, shoved weakly at the back of his knees. The contact felt like a jolt of electric, snapping Sam out of the stunned daze and he dropped to his knees, twisted to look at his brother and keep one eye on the slowly coalescing demon on the other side of the room.

"Dean? Dean, hey, hey I'm here."

Dean stirred, glassy eyes flickering dully around the cabin as if he was searching for something. Sam ran a quick, gentle hand over the lacework of scratches on his brother's face and hands, winced at the sight of the swollen fracture below his left knee.

"Damnit, Dean. What the hell happened?"

For a moment, Dean's wandering gaze locked onto his, pain and confusion dulling it.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah. Yeah man. It's okay, she's…" he cut himself off, didn't know what the demon was right now but the urge to run was building steadily under his skin, in every breath he took and every beat of his heart. "We gotta go, Dean. Okay? C'mon."

"Where's Sammy?"

Sam froze, one hand cupped around his brother's shoulder, the other white around the stock.

"What?" he breathed, hardly recognising his own voice.

"Where's my brother?"

Dean glared at him now, gaze still darting away and Sam thought vaguely that his brother had to be concussed or shocky or _something, _anything to explain the utter lack of anything resembling recognition in that cold stare. But for all his brother's whispers were low, rough and shaky, they were clear and coherent.

"Dean, I'm righ –"

"Oh my gosh, Sam, is it really you?"

His blood ran cold all over again and he spun on his haunches, saw the last drops of blood join the rope of inky smoke that coiled around the girl, all wide white eyes and fear.

"_Meg?"_

The source less voice laughed brightly and Sam tried to smile at the girl as she whined, the smoke curling around her throat. From the way her eyes strained impossibly wider, he figured it wasn't much of a smile. He lifted the shotgun instead, aimed carefully above her head and let his finger brush the trigger, searching for anything corporeal to shoot.

"Leave her alone."

By some miracle, his voice didn't shake as much as his stomach did.

"But I'm having fun, Sam. You remember fun, right? You, me and California? We were going to have so much fun."

"Let. Her. Go."

He put half a pound of pressure on the trigger; felt the weight of the spring strain at his finger. The smoke crept tighter and he could see the girl start to choke, knew he'd already lost and shifted his aim, but before he could pull the trigger the smoky noose around her neck snapped taut - a sharp, quiet crack that sounded like thunder against the silence.

"No!"

He yelled it too late, saw the demon swirl up into the ceiling, the body dropping limply to the floor through the burning in his eyes. Behind him, Dean jerked, scrabbled at the floor, murmured his name again and Sam swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. The smoke writhed against the wood, gathered together, reaching long tendrils down to the floor.

"What the…"

He frowned, frantically searching his memory for anything like this, reaching back with one hand to still his brother's sluggish motion. There was nothing, not in any of the books in Bobby Singers' library, not in the Journal that was all they had of their father. Nothing. Anywhere.

"Sammy, where's Sammy…"

The low groan made his mind up.

Sam spun to face his brother, shifting the duffle across his back as he gathered the hunter up, pulled one cold arm over his shoulders and slung his hand, weighted with the warm shotgun clutched in it, around his waist. He tucked Dean's head in against his shoulder and edged forward a step, his brother's feet trailing behind, whispering apologies when Dean cried out, the sound muffled against his skin.

"Sorry, man, I'm sorry. We gotta go. Okay? We gotta book. I'm sorry."

He kept one eye on the smoke that twisted in the ceiling, whispering and stretching out for him as he dragged Dean to the door. The tendrils thickened as they neared him, split and shaped themselves into hands that caught at his jacket, tugging him back like a hundred tiny mouths, the ice of their touch as they brushed against his skin crawling along his nerves like acid. He winced, pulled away from them and staggered on, sights set on the ruins of the door, the air stirring around him, whispering in his ear.

He shut it out, listened to his brother's hitching breaths, a murmured "Sammy?" making his heart twist and ache. By the time he stepped over shattered wood, he could hear the smoke as it coiled together, the whispers turned to soft laughter and a shadow licking at his heels. He glanced back once, felt the blood drain from his face as he saw a shape growing out of the shifting dark, lifting its arms, a smile glittering at him from the black. He didn't even think as he turned and aimed with the shotgun at his brother's side, pulled the trigger on both barrels, soaked up the recoil and let it send him stumbling back into the night.

The shot roared, tore through the figure, bursting into magnesium flares as it touched the smoke but it worked, the cloud shredding away with a wail.

Sam grinned, set his teeth and kept going, heading for the station wagon tucked in under the trees. Halfway there he could see the ground glinting in the scattered moonlight.

"No. Dammit, no."

He hurried on a few more steps, his brother's head lolling against his shoulder, breath pluming white in front of them. It couldn't hide the shattered windows or the gaping, pancake tyres and he swore again, more viciously, Dean stirring at the fluid growl.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, man," he answered without thinking, got rewarded with a clumsy fist shoved against his collarbone.

"Where's my brother? If you hurt him, I swear to god…"

The threat dissolved into a groan and Dean curled against him, wrapped his arms around his middle again. Sam pulled back a little, shot the top of his brother's head a worried glare, wondered what she'd done to him. Wondered…

"Dean?"

Dean shifted, cocked his head a little, trying to see him, trying to see the threat.

"Hey, Dean it's okay." Hating himself, Sam licked his lips and went on. "I'll help you find Sammy, okay? We just need to get you somewhere safe first."

The older man looked at him, wary but slowly trusting.

"Did… did my Dad send you?"

_oh god_

He recognised the hesitant trust now, recognised the way Dean said his nickname. He just hadn't heard it in so long, hadn't even realised how much it had changed in the years in between. Fumbling to shake off the numb shock, Sam nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, Dean, your Dad told me to come down here and look after you guys. Okay?"

"'kay."

Dean relaxed against him, sagging into his arms, the shift in weight making Sam stagger. He rolled with it, ducked further into the trees, branches scratching his face and hands as he tried to shelter his brother from them. Slowly, he worked them deeper into the forest, nervous anticipation making his skin crawl and his shoulders twitch for something to put them against, something solid to put his back to.

When he saw the rock face through the trees, he almost laughed with relief.

"Almost there, Dean. Just a little further, okay?"

Blindly trusting, Dean nodded against his shoulder, gasped and shook and Sam hurried, wove them between the branches until they broke into a small clearing, lit with patchy silver as the clouds wound slowly across the moon. He didn't realise how much his back had been screaming until he eased his brother down against the low bluff and straightened with a hiss.

"Need to lay off the pies, dude," he murmured, stretching gingerly and already reaching for the duffle, rummaging for the pack of charcoal he'd stuffed inside, back in Massachusetts. Shadows trailed across the rock under his hand as he worked, quickly laying down wards that curled black against the pale, lichen spotted surface. All the time, he could feel eyes on him; Dean curled up on the floor, watching him dully. When he was done, Sam crouched beside his brother, dug in the bag again. Handed his brother his Colt and watched the way Dean hesitated before taking it, the way his hands seemed unfamiliar on the weapon.

"Dean," he said softly, grimaced when the older man started and moaned in pain. "Dean, you wanna tell me what happened?"

Hi brother looked at him, trust dialling back into something more wary now that he wasn't blinded with pain.

"I thought I heard something out on the ranch."

Sam frowned. _Ranch? _A faint memory stirred, tickled the back of his mind but it slipped away before he could catch it.

"Something like people? Or a spirit?"

Dean dropped his gaze, fiddled restlessly with the gun.

"I… it sounded… itsoundedlikeaChupacabra."

It took him a moment to decipher the rush of words but when he did, Sam jerked back, caught himself with one hand spread in the loamy soil. The distant memory returned, anger and fear running roughshod through his big brother's stare, the smell of sun-scorched sand and blasted wood.

"The ranch down in… Utah?"

Dean nodded roughly, jaw clenched tight.

"I went out to look for it but there was nothing there. They must've faked it up somehow."

He remembered it, remembered Dean scowling at him, making him swear to stay put and not move, not for anything. He remembered promising, scared by the look on his brother's face and the strange noises outside.

"When I got back Sammy was…he was gone. They must've taken him. I gotta find him, 'fore Dad gets back!"

"Whoa, hey easy man. Take it easy."

Sam reached out, pressed his brother back into the rock wall as Dean tried to roll to his knees and just paled impossibly further. In the moonlight, the dark staining on his lips and jaw looked black. He cried out again, twisted his face into the ground, knuckles white where his fists pressed into his stomach.

"Jesus, Dean. What did she give you?"

All he could do was hold on to his brother's shoulder, wait until Dean finally shuddered into unconsciousness and whisper to him, "They never got to me, Dean. They didn't."

Out-cold, Dean still clutched at his stomach, pain lining his face. It aged him, added years of worry and hurt and loneliness to his features, but he still looked young, still looked like the resolute, terrified twelve year old Sam remembered from that ranch.

"_You stay here, Sammy. Okay? You stay right here and don't move 'til I get back. Promise me."_

_The howl rises up outside again, harsh and shrieking and he nods._

"_I mean it, Sammy."_

"_I swear, Dean. I'll stay here."_

"_I'll lock the doors but these are just people, Sammy, so the wards won't work. If anyone comes to the door, just stay out of sight and don't make a sound."_

"_Why are they making those noises if they're just people?"_

_He can't help but get a little lost in the curiosity. In the months since Christmas, Dean's told him stories he's heard a thousand times but they're scarier now that he knows they're real._

_Dean fidgets, looks unsure._

"_I don't know if it's the people making the noises Sammy. It might be something else and if it is, I need to stop it."_

"_The Chewie… Chewpakappa?"_

"_Chupacabra. Yeah."_

"_Are they real too?"_

"_Dad says they're not but… there's a lot of stories out there about them. I gotta make sure Sammy, okay? But Dad said this cult is clever and they might figure out we're here so we gotta be real careful."_

_Sam scrunches up, more scared than ever, squeezing himself back into the corner and silently vowing that even Dean isn't going to be able to move him from this spot ever again._

"_Hey, hey it's okay Sammy. Just keep quiet and they'll never know you're here. Alright? Chances are it's not a Chewie or the Cult. It's probably just a coyote."_

_He nods fractionally, wraps his arms around Dean when his brother gives him a one-armed hug._

"_Don't go, Dean."_

"_I gotta, Sammy. I'll be back in an hour though, okay?"_

"_One hour."_

"_Yeah."_

_Dean disentangles himself and struts to the door, grabs the shotgun leaning against the jamb. Sam waits until he's almost over the threshold._

"_Dean."_

_His brother stops, looks back over his shoulder, not quite far enough for him to see more than Dean's profile and realise that he didn't really know his brother at all because all of a sudden, Dean looks an awful lot like Dad when he gets back from his trips in the fall._

"_Be careful."_

_His brother smiles, and then he just looks like Dean again._

"_You too, Sammy."_

Sam dropped his head, suddenly feeling every one of the five hours and change it had taken him to drive here. He shifted, put his back to the wall next to his brother, laid the shotgun across his lap, left one hand resting on Dean's shoulder and tried to think.

_He got back in time, I know he did. They were just breaking down the door when he started shooting, and then Dad came, he followed them to the ranch. They never took me._

"They never took me, Dean," he said aloud, low and soft, hoping his brother could hear him and recognise him on some level. Dean stirred at his voice, rolled away a little and Sam saw hurt and loss flicker across his face before confusion swamped it. The older man frowned, lifted one hand from his abdomen to rub at his head and his voice, when he spoke, was shaky and rough and _Dean._

"Sam?"

_His _Dean. Full of old pain and bravado and trust and Sam leaned over, ducked his head to catch his brother's gaze.

"Dean? You there?"

Quick as it came, it was gone and there's just a wall between them he couldn't ever climb.

"Where's Sammy?"

He realised that Dean at twelve looked more like their Dad than Dean at twenty-seven does and the thought saddened him.

_I'm right here._

"I don't know yet, kiddo."

Dean scowled and Sam had to fight down a snicker. As a child he'd never noticed the way his brother pouted, but as an adult, he knows it's an unbearably endearing trait and that thought tipped him over the edge, weariness and the waning adrenaline rush dragging him into giggles that bloomed into chuckles.

"It's Dean."

He nodded, tried in vain to stifle the laughter.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, Dean, I know."

Dean huffed, slithered awkwardly around to prop himself half up against the rock and sat there, arms crossed over his chest, one knee drawn up to them, glaring fiercely at the trees. Sam just clutched the shotgun and hiccupped as the laughter faded away, left him breathless and drained but still smiling.

And still feeling lost.

"Dean."

His brother looked sideways at him, not quite taking his gaze off the trees.

"Do you know where your Dad is?"

Hell if it isn't weird, talking to his brother like he's a stranger when there's never been anyone he knows better. He ignored the pang of grief at the question, could almost be glad that, just for now, Dean didn't have to live with it. Dean shrugged a little, wincing like it hurt but Sam noticed he wasn't clutching at his abdomen quite as hard now, let himself hope that maybe whatever Meg did to him had almost run its course.

"He went after them, up in Salt Lake. They must've given him the slip."

Sam blinked at the matter-of-fact way his brother said it. One of his overriding memories of his childhood was the reverence Dean held for their Father, he didn't remember a single time that his brother even implied John could make a mistake until he was fifteen. But Dean was still staring out at the trees, as if discussing his Dad's failings with a complete stranger was just another day.

Only, he could see the effort it was taking his brother to stay still in the way the gun, still locked in his grip, trembled.

Hesitantly, not sure how to read the man beside him, Sam reached out again, laid one hand on his brother's shoulder.

"We'll find him, Dean."

When Dean swallowed and leant into him, seeking reassurance in a way he hadn't in all the time since he came for Sam at school, it suddenly didn't feel strange to talk about himself like he isn't there at all. He smiled weakly, hoped Dean would remember letting Sam hold him up if – _when – _they find a way to fix this.

And of course, that was the moment that the wind picked up and swirled dust and litter from the floor into their eyes, pelting them with scraps of leaf and skeletal bits of branch. Sam threw an arm across his eyes, squinted into the wind that brought tears to his eyes, fury burning behind them when Dean cried out and huddled back against the rock, scrunching himself down against it. The younger man rolled to his feet, leant into the tempest and forced his way through it to stand before his brother, offering him as much shelter as he could.

"How sweet."

Sam stared, dumbstruck as she slipped out of the dark between the trees, just another shadow until the moonlight caught the mottling of skin across her face, glittered from her eyes.

"Whaddaya think, Sam?"

She threw her arms out and twirled, laughing.

"Like the new trick? Couldn't've done it without you."

Black sparks trailed from her fingers as she lifted one hand, curled it into a fist, spread it wide and brought it down flat against the air. The wind stilled instantly, a few dregs of litter tumbling limply to the ground. Sam lifted the shotgun to his shoulder, pulled smoothly back on the trigger and felt the recoil kick back into his shoulder but nothing else happened. The demon grinned at him.

"I've been a busy girl, Sam, since you Winchesters sent me downstairs last time. Met a witch down there, she showed me all kinds of interesting things."

The shadow in her skin writhed, thickened, remoulded itself and paled until he was staring into a mirror, silver bright in his eyes, on his cold smile. Behind him Dean gasped, leant against his legs and Meg cocked his head, looking down at the hunter.

"I wondered what your brother would do when he saw you standing in the middle of the road Sam. Turns out he'd rather roll that precious car of his right off a cliff than hit you."

"You bitch."

She laughed again, stepped to the edge of the line of sigils and leaned forward a little.

"Looks like my little game went a bit wrong though, didn't it? Poor Dean. I don't think he ever realised what you remembered, Sam. Too bad his own recollection was just so boring. I had to spice things up a bit."

She flicked her fingers, his double dissolving into familiar short, blond hair and an elfin face. Sam leaned back into his brother's shoulder as Dean sagged against the back of his legs, one hand curling into his jeans as he groaned thickly. Sam's breath caught as he heard words in it, a fractured denial, felt the older man shake his head.

"Didn't get him… I caught him… it didn't get him…"

"Fight it, Dean. You fight it," he murmured, just loud enough for their ears but Meg grinned, tilted her head back to the sky and breathed out a thin cloud of vapour. It didn't dissipate, just tumbled down to the ground and slithered over the wards, rustling leaves as it crept towards the brothers. Sam edged forwards, brought up by the hand still locked in the hem of his jeans and swung around to see his brother staring up at him, eyes wide and young.

"No."

"Dean –"

There was something else in that gaze, dim recognition filtering up through the confusion, determination he'd known all his life.

"Dean, don't."

Dean, _his _Dean again, smiled and tugged hard at Sam's jeans, sending him stumbling off balance, away from the reaching tendrils of the vapour that wavered uncertainly for a moment, then dove straight for his brother, streaming into his nose and mouth as Dean choked on them.

"No!"

He threw himself forward, swung the barrel of the shotgun through the vapour but it just went straight through to thud hard against the ground and the vapour kept pouring into his brother, even as he grabbed Dean's biceps and dragged him up, pinning him to the rock face with one shoulder, turning to the edge of the clearing and levelling the shotgun at the demon, not caring that it had been about as much use as a feather last time. It felt like fighting instead of running, it felt like _Dean _and when his brother was choking at his back, clutching hands switching their grip to shove him away, panic ripe in the small noises he was making, Sam would take what he could get. Biting his lip, he stepped away from Dean; let him crumple to the ground, feeling his heart seize up as the older man sobbed.

"Just a top up," Meg hissed at him from the edge of the wards. He snarled, dropped the shotgun in favour of the Taurus against his back, strode forward and pulled the trigger until it clicked emptily. She stood there and waited for him, untouched by the iron rounds.

"Let him go."

He tried to ignore the memory of a dark haired girl, stare wild and terrified, just another face he couldn't save. The demon sighed in exaggerated exasperation.

"Really, Sam. That's getting a little old, don't you think?"

He pulled a knife from his boot, blessed silver throwing moonlight in their eyes.

"Let. Him. _GO."_

"No."

She leant forward as she said it and he lashed out, the blade whistling through her cheek, trailing smoke behind it. She staggered, winced as one boot crossed the line of the wards and drew back and Sam stared at the wisp that curled up from her leg, real white smoke instead of the oily black cloud that she was made of.

He shot a look back at his brother; felt his heart lock solid again as he saw Dean curled up on the floor, good leg drawn into his chest, his head tucked down against it. He thought he could hear his name, choked out in the sobs that shook his brother's body, heard his own breathing rasp in his ears as he sucked in air, spun back and threw himself at the demon, long arms reaching for her. His fingers sunk into skin that felt real, dug deep as he twisted again, wrenched her across the line of the wards he'd drawn in the dirt and she screamed, flailed at him, clawed at his arms as he let her fall and scrabbled on the ground, snatching up the first stick he found. She writhed as he scrawled hasty sigils, chanting breathlessly, looping them around her, caging her. He'd almost completed the circle, just a few inches left of the last line when her cries suddenly cut off and he had just enough time to look up and see her smiling at him, black smoke staining her breath like blood.

Then he was flying, rolling roughshod across the clearing, his own yelp loud in his ears. The tree that stopped him felt like it was made of granite, dull fire blooming across his back and left side, slamming the air out of his lungs, turning the world to a muted roar. Blinking back the cloud of stars that blocked his vision, he gasped for breath, couldn't find any, shook his head desperately, regretted it when the fire flared down his neck, curled into his shoulders. He groaned breathlessly, squeezed his eyes shut and fisted a handful of loam until he managed to suck in a thin dreg of wet-tasting air, the world crashing back in on him with it.

Through watering eyes, he saw the demon pushing herself up, stepping daintily over the original line of the wards that twisted through his aborted circle, smiling as she turned to him. He sucked in more air, pushed against the floor but couldn't lift himself an inch, just lay there helpless as she neared the edge of the circle.

And hit something that flared white.

He blinked again, followed her snarl as she looked at her feet, at his brother, stick clutched in his fist, the completed circle glowing with dim fire in the dirt. Sam smiled slowly, rolled painfully to his knees and staggered towards the trapped demon, already flipping through the memorised rites of banishment that might work. He stopped just behind his brother, the toe of one boot just barely touching the older man's back where Dean huddled on the ground, seemingly out cold again. Sam smirked at the demon, began to murmur the chant, dug in his pockets for the bags of herbs he'd stashed there, just hours earlier, hoping against hope he wouldn't need them for anything but one of the few snatches of wisdom that hadn't come from his family ringing in his head.

_Be prepared, Sam. Carry what you might need for t__he worse case scenario on you; you might lose a bag. You're not likely to lose your pants._

Somehow, it seemed fitting that it was Pastor Jim's advice that would help him send the demon that had killed the preacher back to hell. He fumbled the sage out of its baggie, never taking his eyes off hers as she fumed, just as helpless now as she'd had both brothers. Sam lit it, breathed in the pungent smoke and wafted it out into the circle as he whispered the last words. As soon as the pale wisps touched her, she began to shred away, baleful stare never leaving his until there was nothing left, just a small vacuum that imploded with a rush of air and a pop when he scuffed a boot through the circle.

It was all a little anticlimactic.

He sighed out a laugh, sagged gracelessly to his knees, the jolt as he hit the floor jarring up his back. His hand felt like lead as he lifted it, heavy and numb, skating it over his brother's shoulder. Dean flinched, rolled away with a low cry and Sam's breath hitched as he snatched his hand back.

"Dean?"

His brother just groaned, inarticulate, face pressed into the loam.

"Dean, come on. It's me."

Suddenly, he was desperate to hear just one bit of his brother's sarcasm, to see Dean look at him like he was wondering how to keep him safe again. The wide, bloodshot eyes that fixed him were just scared, shattering apart as he watched.

"Sammy. They… god. Oh god, Sammy."

Dean sounded so desolate, so lost that Sam couldn't breathe, couldn't remember how to make himself reach out the hand that had fallen limply back to his knees.

"Dean," he whispered, watched as his brother crumpled, broke before his eyes, pale cheeks streaked with tears that cut through the grime and dried blood on his face, left pale tracks behind them as they fell, silver in the dark. Dean curled over, hunched awkwardly on one knee, one hand braced against the ground, his head buried in the opposite arm, shoulders heaving as he wept.

Sam reached out at last, blindly grabbing his brother's shoulder and pulling Dean against him, taking the weight of his brother's grief like the weight of the world, rocking them both slowly in the middle of the clearing and feeling utterly alone as the clouds swept in and turned the night dark.

_**A/N2: Just one more chapter, jam packed with schmoop for your viewing pleasure! Go on, hit that little button…**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: As promised, here be schmoop. By the bucketload. There may even be a few chich-flicks ahead, so watch your step... Huge thanks to my beta's, Catzeye and RoweenaC who caught more typos, tense changes and just plain bad english than I care to remember, to all the people who put this story on alert – your silent lurking has made this all worth while. And of course, hugest thanks to Swellison who ordered up this little jaunt in the first place! **_

_**~~*~~**_

He leant against the window, stared through his reflection at the sagging trees on the other side of the small park, bare branches dripping in the rain.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

He didn't move as he answered her, felt his voice catch in his throat, raw from talking for so long.

She deserved more than his silence, deserved some further acknowledgement, maybe a resolution drawn from thin air. Instead, he blinked, saw the afterimage of his brother burned into his mind, pale and scared and young in the bed, one hand locked around the rails, the other clutching the amulet he wouldn't let them take off.

"Sam, I'm sorry."

He smiled at that, weakly, bitterly.

"Nothin' else you can do, Amanda."

"I know. Still. I wish I could help."

"Yeah. Thanks."

He watched the doctor go in the glass, tried to feel grateful.

Just felt tired.

Sighing, Sam pushed away from the wall, trod the familiar path back to the small room at the back of the clinic. His shoulders rounded as he leant against the door frame, too worn, too weary to bear his own weight. He couldn't stop his lips twitching up in a frayed smile as he peered into the room; saw his brother curled on the bed, face unlined and peaceful under the marks of tears as he slept. The younger man rolled his shoulder across the scratched, chipped paint of the frame, shuffled to the chair drawn up by the wall beside the bed and dropped into it. The cushions were moulded to him by now but it was still hard and uncomfortable, a little too short and a lot too far away from his brother but he didn't dare scoot nearer.

He rubbed a hand ruefully over the bruise on his hip from the last time he'd tried to do just that and Dean had woken up fighting with every weapon he had, including the bulky cast enveloping his left leg from toes to kneecap.

Propping his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands, Sam just breathed, listened to his brother doing the same. It felt oddly lonely when he'd first realised that Dean had stopped the faint snore that he'd woken to so often in the last eighteen months, a thin whistling sniff, and he missed it acutely.

"Dammit, Dean," he whispered into his fingers, ground shaking hands into his eyes.

"Where's my Dad?"

His brother's voice was ragged, torn apart by grief and Sam choked on hysteria, looked up after a moment to meet thin slits of bloodshot, empty hazel. He shook his head, wanted to reach out but Dean still held himself rigid, wary.

"I don't know how to do this, man," Sam murmured, saw confusion cloud the grief for just a heartbeat before it turned to iron again. Dean glared at him, rolled over and hunched his shoulders up under the thin blankets, burrowing down into them. The younger man reached out, skimmed a hand an inch above his brother's trembling shoulder, then let it drop without ever making contact.

"I'll be out front with doctor Lee, Dean. Alright?"

He thought maybe Dean nodded, wondered if his brother even heard him and turned, walked out of the stifling room again. He found the doctor slouched wearily in front of a microscope, blinked away the memory of leaning against a counter and the bemusement and euphoria he'd felt when she told him his blood was clean.

"Anything?" he asked, hitching himself up to perch on the edge of the table. She startled a little, pulled back from the microscope and rubbed a hand through her hair, shorter than it had been in Oregon.

"There's no sign of anything in his blood work. No toxins, no foreign substances. No sulphur." She looked sideways at him as she said that and he grinned lopsidedly, wearily.

"That's something."

The wheels on her chair squeaked as she rolled back to face him, eyes serious and dark. He had a sinking feeling, knew what was coming and tried to stall it.

"I wanted to say thanks again, Amanda."

She blinked at him, shrugged it off but he could see the edge of fear still running through her hands, remembered the shock of it in her eyes when he'd turned up on her doorstep in the middle of the night in a stolen car with his brother curled against him and almost oblivious with pain. They'd kept in touch since River Grove, just enough for him to know where to find her, not quite enough for her to be comfortable with two battered, broken hunters begging her for help. He hadn't taken the time to call her first, worried she might freak out if she'd had time and call the cops before they got there.

Their faces were still on the news now and then, Dean and Sam Winchester: jailbirds.

Throw in a reminder of a night he knew she'd just want to forget, and all he'd dared do was drive the four hours to Vinita, Dean hunched in the corner of the back seat, still crying out for Sammy. He'd waited until his brother slipped into a quiet, restless doze before calling Bobby, found him in Lexington, Kentucky, begging him to drive the roads around the town they'd been staying in, her taunt ringing in his ears. _He'd rather roll that precious car of his right off a cliff than hit you_.

Dean hadn't even responded to the hopeful lie that the Impala was safe, just drifted silently in the back seat, only whispering endlessly, so quietly Sam had to strain to hear him. Sam finally figured out as they crossed the state line with the sun rising behind them that in the last dream Meg had thrown him into, Dean had found his little brother too late.

By the time Dr. Lee had taken them into the clinic, x-rayed, reset and splinted his brother's leg and dosed him with morphine for the agony he was still riding from the poison, Dean was lucid again. He still didn't recognise Sam, just kept asking for John, kept grieving for Sammy.

Bobby's call, nearly seven hours after he'd promised to hit the road and find their home again, was a welcome distraction.

"_Sam? I found her."_

_His stomach dropped right down to his boots and he couldn't find his voice._

"_You there son?"_

"_Yeah. I… uh. Is it… she said he rolled over a cliff." he blurted it out in a rush, eyeing his brother from the doorway, wondering if Dean remembered even that. Bobby sighed, a soft huff down the line._

"_Demons lie, Sam. You know that. That didn't even count as a hill. Car's on her roof, wedged in the trees but there's not much damage. Bit of bodywork, new windows, maybe a split rad__iator__ hose."_

"_So she's okay?" He didn't realise he'd borrowed his brother's usual pronoun for the car until Bobby snorted._

"_Old girl'll be fine. I'll get her right side up, load her onto the flatbed and haul her back to the yard."_

"_Thanks, Bobby."_

'_Take care of him, and I'll fix her up, drop around to you boys. Won't take more than a day or two_._'_

When he'd told his brother that Bobby had the Impala, Dean had just looked blankly at him for a beat, went back to staring through the rear window of the Ford. The plastic sheeting over the opposite door flapped as Sam drove, the jury-rigged repairs to the slashed tyres shuddering through the steering wheel in his hands.

The only thing he noticed was the hollow gaze raking over the dark outside.

He'd forgotten this side of his brother, rarely seen, stubbornly shutting himself away in sleep, locking away the hurt, walling it up behind his anger at a world he didn't want to acknowledge.

Sam sighed, mirrored Amanda's gesture and scrubbed a hand through his hair, wincing as it caught in the tangled mass. He still kept finding scraps of leaf litter, hadn't dared leave his brother's side for more than the quickest of showers.

"You're welcome. Sam..."

_Here it comes._

"You have to understand. There's nothing physically wrong with Dean. The poison's run its course and his leg will heal just fine. He just… he's like an amnesiac, I guess."

Sam snorted.

"Yeah, except what he does remember is screwed to hell."

"I don't pretend to have the faintest idea of what happened to him, of what that…" she trailed off, swallowed and spat the word out like it hurt - _"__d__emon _did to him, but he might not be able to come back from this. There's nothing physical to heal to make him better, I don't have a magic wand to wave."

"He's getting better, Amanda. He has to."

He was sure of it, had to be. There'd been just enough glimpses of his brother through the confusion and desperate loneliness to let him hope. She just looked at him silently for a long moment, and Sam listened to his heart beat steadily in the quiet, wondering when it had gotten so hard to have faith that Dean would be fine.

"He has to," he breathed again, slipped off the counter and wandered back to his brother's side, feeling the emptiness beside him grow with every second he was away.

Sliding back into the hard, uncomfortable chair felt like coming home and finding everything had been moved while he was gone.

"Hey dude," he murmured, settled down with his boots propped on the bottom rung of the bed frame, slouching so his head was on a level with the middle of his brother's back. Dean stiffened at his voice, didn't answer and didn't turn, just stayed buried in the blankets. They sat there while Sam watched the shadows through the window shift and change, growing longer as the day turned. Absently, Dean reached down to scratch at the top of his cast, short nails _scritching_ at the plaster until Sam tutted.

"Hey. Quit pickin' at that."

The other man stilled again but his shoulders were relaxed, the tight curve of his spine loose as he shifted in the bed, rolling half to his back, twisting his head to stare at the ceiling. Sam tipped his own head back until it rested on the top of the chair, an odd companionship in both of them taking in the cracked plaster.

"He isn't coming back, is he?"

Dean said it so quietly, Sam almost missed it. His throat dried, ached as he struggled to swallow against the betrayal in his brother's question.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

It was all he could say. Dean nodded slowly in the corner of his eye.

"What's goin' on?"

He wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, didn't know where to start.

"There was a demon. A year ago almost, we exorcised her, sent her back to hell. Six months ago, she possessed me until you and Bobby exorcised her again. This was… revenge, I guess."

"The only thing I give a rat's ass about is seeing you burn," Dean breathed and Sam's head snapped up.

"What? Dean, what did you say?"

Dean shrank back from him, lips clamped shut.

"Dean, what do you remember?"

He was up, leaning over the edge of the bed without quite knowing how he'd even gotten there, his hands fisting the blankets so tightly he thought they would tear. His brother shoved over on the bed, to the far side, away from him, and that hurt fiercely, bitterly, but he didn't care.

"Dean!"

"I don't know!"

"You remember it, you remember her don't you? Come on, Dean, think!"

"I don't –"

"You remember, you have to! What did she say to you?!"

He didn't realise he was shouting so loudly his voice cracked until his brother wailed back at him, almost screaming, _"I don't know!" _Sam flinched, stared horrified at Dean as he teetered on the edge of the bed, one fist up, shaking in front of his face, the other dragging at the sheets. "I don't know! I found where they took Sammy but it was just like before, he was _dead _again, just like in the house and with the Skinwalker and the Shtriga and _I don't understand! _I remember him dying, again and again and I remember saving him and I don't know which one's real!"

"Oh god," he breathed as his brother dissolved into helpless tears. "God, Dean." Sam reached out blindly, caught at his brother's arm as he started to tip over the edge of the mattress and tugged him back to the middle of the bed. Dean slumped into him, shaking with the sobs that tore through him, soaking Sam's shirt in moments. The younger man tucked his head down into his brother's hair, pulled him closer and just held on, finally understanding what had happened. All the close calls, all the near misses and the miracles and she'd twisted them up, turned them upside down and made his brother live through them again in some warped and tragic universe.

"Sam?"

He jerked his head around enough to see Amanda in the doorway, eyes wide, hair mussed from her rush.

"He's stuck," he murmured to her, guilt ragged in his confession. "He's stuck because he was in the middle of one of her nightmares when I stopped her, and now he can't wake up."

"What? Sam, you're not making sense."

He blinked, felt his brother's hair scratch against his jaw as he tried to gather himself, to understand.

"You said there was a hallucinogen in whatever it was she gave him, right?"

"Yes. It was about the only thing I did recognise."

"She must've…" He trailed off, putting it together in his head as he tried to make sense of the confused morass of jumbled memories and delirium. "She must've worked a spell, maybe? So she could control what he saw. Used my memories from when she possessed me in Texas, and then changed them so I died. He kept seeing me die, over and over." He was talking more to himself now, working it out slowly, putting the fractured jigsaw together and not liking the picture he found at all. "When I got into the cabin she was touching his head, like she needed contact to control the dreams? I shot her away from him but it didn't stop. He got stuck in it. Oh god, Dean. I'm sorry."

Vaguely, he saw Amanda shake her head in disbelief and leave, hugging herself. All he really knew was his brother, shattering to pieces against him.

He held on for hours.

Slowly became aware that Dean wasn't crying anymore, hadn't been for some time. His fists were still tangled in Sam's shirt, his head still tucked under Sam's chin but he was still, drained. Easing out from under Dean, he scooted his brother back on the bed, propping one hip against it when Dean stirred and twisted his handfuls of shirt tighter.

"I'm here, man. I'm right here."

"Don' go."

It was sleepy, slurred and it choked him up completely.

"I'm not going anywhere Dean. I promise."

"Leavin' me. Keep leavin'."

Peering at his brother's face while he waited for the lump in his throat to break up, Sam wondered if Dean was even awake at all.

"Not this time," he soothed when he found his voice again. "I'm staying right here."

Dean sighed, hands slipping free of Sam's shirt to rest loosely on the pillow. Sam closed his eyes for a moment, stared at the dark and leant against the bed, weary, but the rage that had been boiling inside him since he'd figured out what Meg had done now faded to a dull simmer. Opening his eyes again, he watched his brother sleep, casted leg propped awkwardly against his good one, shoulders twisted the other way.

"How do you even sleep like that, man?"

It wasn't exactly a new question, weighted with old familiarity he'd almost forgotten at Stanford, thin humour between himself and John whenever they'd found Dean jammed into a corner somewhere even a contortionist would think twice about, sleeping peacefully. Yawning, Sam wobbled over to his chair, sank into it with a groan and this time it didn't feel strange to scoot the chair closer, lift heavy boots to the end of the mattress and rest one elbow on the bed, just brushing his brother's hand. It felt like home.

He buttressed his aching head with his free hand, blinked slowly at Dean as he slept, only the slow rise and fall of his chest giving away any sign of life, tracks drying to nothing on his cheeks. Sleepily, Sam noticed that his brother's freckles stood out more now, the way they had when they were kids and wondered if the dream (his brother) that Dean was trapped in really had the power to change him physically.

_He's just pale, dumbass._

He frowned a little at the voice that sounded way too much like Caleb for comfort, let himself doze, waking every time Dean stirred, waiting until he'd settled into that scarily complete stillness again before drifting away. Time skipped, caught in snatches in the flickering hands of the clock, in the shadows that turned slowly across the floor. Faintly, he was aware of Amanda checking on them, made himself mumble some kind of answer to her questions until she took the hint and left them with a spare blanket draped over his shoulders.

Finally, Dean rolled over and met his eyes, open and honest, and Sam felt something loosen inside at the trust in them.

"Mornin'," he murmured, watched Dean choose between sullen anger and loneliness for the familiar stranger sitting at his bedside every time he woke up.

"Morning, sunshine," he finally answered and Sam smirked, rubbed sleep out of his eyes. His brother mirrored him, easing to his back again with a small wince that lingered in his blank, tired stare. Sam shoved to his feet, restless, wandered over to the window chewing at a fingernail, wished he knew how to get his brother back.

"_You're okay, Sammy__,__ it's alright. I've got you."_

The whisper was old, mostly forgotten memory that kept slipping through the cracks now. He frowned, chased after it, desperate to remember more clearly, hoping that somewhere in the past he might find the miracle he was praying for.

"You came back, I remember that," he breathed, absently watched a few cars splash past outside, the rain keeping the streets mostly empty. Heard the rustle of sheets as his brother twitched and turn away, shutting him out again. "They broke the window. I didn't move, just like I promised but they just broke the window and came straight in. They were grabbing me…" Winced as he saw hands coming at him, too many, dark faces twisted with hate as he scrambled back, too small to stop them just snatching him up and bundling him out through the shattered glass. "We were outside when you started shooting." Remembered the slam of bullets against the walls behind them, remembered one man go down, screaming, clutching at his leg and bright, bright blood in the sun. "You slowed them down and then Dad showed up. I thought he was just like one of the monsters from his journal, he was so mad." He huffed out a laugh, remembering John's face when he'd finally dragged Sam away from the heap of unconscious cultists, Dean still screaming at them, "My Dad's gonna kill you! He hunts things like you down and eats you for breakfast!"

He glanced back at Dean, hoping, turned back to the window and dragged in a lungful of the stale air in the room when his brother didn't answer.

Let it out in a rush when Dean whispered, "He took us out for ice cream, but Sammy wanted pie."

"Yeah. You remember it, Dean?"

"I don't… don't know. I remember finding the van, few miles down the road. It was empty except…"

Sam didn't move, stayed at the window, felt his brother's eyes on his back, barely heard him whisper.

"You had cherry pie."

"Yeah, I did. You had apple. Dad had the biggest slice of pecan pie I've ever seen."

"Which one's real?"

He turned at that, saw his brother watching him, eyes raw and lost.

"This one," he answered in a whisper, hoped Dean could believe it. He stood there in silence, listened to his brother struggle with it as long as he could stand. "Hey," he finally spoke up. "Wanna blow this joint for a while?"

Dean stared at him and nodded slowly.

An hour later Sam gaped as his brother ploughed through a dish piled high with pie, whipped cream and fresh fruit. He picked at his own plate, smiled at the waitress when she refilled his coffee and plopped another soda down in front of his brother.

"You boys doin' okay?"

"Yeah. We're just fine."

He watched Dean grin around a mouthful of pastry and cream, dropped his fork onto his own plate and sat back.

"You gonna finish that?"

Sam smirked, shook his head.

"Knock yourself out."

"Awesome."

Dean dragged Sam's plate across the table, heaped the leftovers into his bowl and shovelled in few mouthfuls before noisily slurping at the soda. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Nice, Dean. Try some manners, huh?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, the expression oddly out-of-place against his smile.

"Sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities there, princess."

Shaking his head Sam let it go, sipped at his coffee and watched him eat. It was strange, seeing what his brother had been like as a child, even fractured as this version was. The walls that hid away everything Dean cared about were there, but they were softer somehow, almost transparent, with none of the cold cynicism that tempered him now. He found himself missing it, the weight of responsibility for his brother staggering him at odd moments.

He wondered if this was how Dean felt, how his brother managed to keep going.

"Quit thinkin' so loud, Sam."

Sam sighed a little, hid it in his coffee. It felt lonely not being Sammy anymore, but it had been enough of a struggle to get Dean, confused, trapped in two sets of memories and trying to make sense of either one, to accept him as Sam.

"Hey."

He looked up at the quiet, serious tone, found his brother looking at him through dark eyes that seemed almost, _almost _like the Dean he knew.

"We'll figure it out, okay?"

"Yeah. I know. It's just… it's weird, you know?"

Dean snorted, went back to his pie, muttering around a fresh mouthful.

"You're tellin' me."

Sam looked at the grey sky through the window, at the wet roads reflecting back the trees and buildings around the small square, thought vaguely that it looked like more rain was coming. He drained his mug, signalled for the check.

"C'mon Dean. Finish up. We should get back."

"Yeah. Okay."

They were halfway across the park in the middle of the square when Dean stopped. Sam took a few more steps, waited, half-turned to look at his brother as he gazed blankly at the grass.

"Dean? You alright?"

"Do you think I'll ever forget?"

For a long moment, all he heard was how young Dean sounded, how utterly lost and alone. He took a step back before his mind replayed the words his brother had spoken, and he nearly folded to the ground Dean was staring at so intently.

_Will I ever forget all the times I saw Sammy die?_

He didn't even have an answer.

"Come on," he said gently, reaching out one hand to cup his brother's elbow as Dean crutched slowly, carefully through the soggy park, not yet quite comfortable on the crutches. "Let's get in before it starts raining, huh?"

In the end, they didn't quite make it, the clouds opening up on them as they got to the end of the block the clinic was on. By the time they got inside, they were both drenched and the question, still hanging over their heads, was forgotten for a while in the rush for hot showers and dry clothes. When Sam emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, feeling vaguely human again, he found his brother sleeping again, face turned to the window, pale and drawn, Amanda just leaving the room as he slipped through the open door.

"I gave him another dose of morphine, a small one."

Sam felt his heart crowd up into his throat.

"The poison?"

"No, no. Just his leg. It's gonna be a long time before it stops bothering him and he's pretty worn out."

The hunter sagged against the wall in relief.

"Sam, get some sleep, alright? He needs you healthy right now."

She took his arm, shook it gently as she spoke and he tore his eyes away from his brother long enough to see the frank appraisal in her gaze. Guilt uncurled in his stomach, even wanting real sleep seemed wrong, like he was letting his brother down somehow.

"Yeah, I know. I will."

She snorted at him, turned back into the hallway and Sam headed for his chair, dropping into his accustomed position, boots up on the bed, one hand resting next to the pillow, head tipped back against the wall. He drifted away staring at the ceiling, wondering if the cracks there really were getting bigger.

A hand on his wrist woke him. Sam went from zero to on-his-feet-knife-in-hand in a heartbeat, blinked wildly at the dark room and tried to free his arm from his brother's grip. His shoulders relaxed as he searched the room and found nothing but the same four walls he'd been staring at for way too long.

"Dean?"

"Sammy?"

Sam froze, held himself perfectly still; certain he might just shatter into pieces if he dared move. Faintly, he heard the knife clatter to the floor.

"Sammy?" Dean croaked again, shaking his wrist a little and he jolted, blinked as the world twisted dizzily around him. He searched for his brother in the shadows, found bloodshot eyes that were old and tired and _Dean. _Sam tried to speak, couldn't find anything to say, just turned his arm in his brother's hand until he could lock his fingers around the older man's wrist. Dean held on like he was drowning, like Sam was the only thing keeping him afloat and briefly, dazedly, Sam wondered if his own grip was any less desperate.

"Dean?" he breathed, still not quite sure he believed it.

"God, Sammy," his brother choked out, rolling awkwardly towards him, his cast dragging at the tangled sheets and blankets. Sam shook himself, lurched forward, grabbing at the thick cotton, trying to work it loose; belatedly realising he'd stopped breathing as spots began to dance across his vision. He sucked in air, tugged on their joined hands until Dean rolled further, into his shoulder, and as he found the edge of the blanket, Sam felt hot wetness soak through his shirt. He fiddled with the blanket, smoothing it uselessly, trying to give his brother time.

Finally, Dean pulled back, fingers still locked around his wrist. Sam shifted, hitched one hip up on the edge of the bed, not quite believing he wasn't dreaming.

"Dean?"

The look he saw in his brother's face was all he needed to know he was awake. Devastation, soul-wrenching grief and guilt, but rage too, burning slow and white-hot.

"How long?" Dean asked, voice a little rough and shaky.

"Since she took you? Four days. We've been here for three."

"Where is here?"

Sam frowned. "You don't remember?"

He could have shot himself when his brother paled, swallowed thickly before answering.

"Sort've. Some of it. But it's… hazy. I think, Doctor Lee? From River Grove?"

"Yeah. We were just a few hours from her new clinic, and I didn't want to risk a hospital. Not so soon after Green River. I figured Vinita, Oklahoma was a safer bet."

Dean nodded, twisted his free hand into the blankets.

"Before that. We were in… Missouri?"

Sam rubbed at his brow, pressed the heel of his hand into one eye.

"She must've pulled that out of my head too."

He could feel his brother's heartbeat fluttering against his fingertip, too quick still. It matched his.

They sat there, talking quietly sometimes, mostly just holding on, until the sun crept through the rain clouds and turned the soaked streets to gold. Sometime, in the long, dark hours, Sam finally worked up the courage to ask his brother, _Dean, _instead of the terrified, lonely twelve-year old who'd been looking out through his eyes for the past three days, what she'd shown him.

"_You said... you said I died, at the ranch. Just like in the house and with the Skinwalker and the Shtriga"_

_Dean just shrugged, gone back an hour ago to twisting the bedclothes into knots, eyes intent on his task as if it was vital. Maybe it was._

"_They were just hunts that nearly went wrong." _

_Sam didn't miss the odd hesitation in his brother's words, could almost hear him adding the qualifier__:_ nearly_. He nodded, knew he would never ask again, and__ that__ Dean would never tell__. He __just hoped that one day Dean could forget the dreams._

Three hours later, he was loading Dean's crutches into the backseat of the Impala, listening to his brother flirt with the nurse who'd seemed less than surprised to see two young men emerge from her boss' back rooms. Bobby had kept his distance when he'd unloaded the car from the flatbed he'd driven it down on, telling Sam to bring them both up to Sioux Falls, and soon. The younger man still wasn't sure if the grizzled hunter was just giving them some space, or if he'd been as unsure about how to deal with the scared child looking out through his brother's eyes as Sam was. He shook off the memory, smiled at the heat of the sun on the back of his neck, bright in his tired eyes as he straightened, met Amanda's gaze where she loitered on the steps leading into the clinic.

"Thank you," he mouthed, meant it at last. She shrugged, nodded and blushed, quickly ducking back inside with an irate call for the pretty blonde nurse leaning into the car window. Smirking, Sam slid in through the open driver's door, flexed his hands around the wheel.

"Where we headin', Sammy?"

Dean hadn't called him anything else all morning and he wouldn't have changed it for the world.

"I don't know. I figured we could just head up toward Wisconsin, or Illinois maybe, do a little road tripping and see what comes up."

"You really want to go on a road trip with your big brother? That's sweet, Sammy. I'm touched."

Sam rolled his eyes, started the engine with a roar.

"In the head, maybe."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean snorted, shuffled down in the seat, digging in the glove compartment for his sunglasses with one hand as he reached for the radio with the other. Angus Young's power chords slammed through the car and Sam chuckled, shook his head and peeled out.

And he couldn't stop smiling.

_**A/N: That's all, folks. Hope you enjoyed! **_


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